


Tick

by ThisHereNow



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, British!Derek, Humor, M/M, Tourist!Stiles, in which stiles is stiles and talks too much, schmoop and randomness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-16
Updated: 2012-11-16
Packaged: 2017-11-18 19:17:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/564364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisHereNow/pseuds/ThisHereNow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles ticks box after box on his list, including: <em>Check list off while having tea.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Tick

**Author's Note:**

> Something spazzy for my 2nd teen wolf fic ever to make up for the wangst in the first one. I tried writing a sequel to the first one, but then I got depressed. So I wrote this instead. ;)
> 
> [ unbeta'd AU, also I'm rusty with a side of possible tense issues so... ]

Ride a double-decker bus, check. Visit Big Ben and fawn over him, check. Be a creeper and lurk around Buckingham Palace, check. Drool all over Harrods without buying anything, check. Break into Wembley Stadium at night, half-check. (Seriously, he did not see that guard there.)  
  
Stiles ticks box after box on his list, including: _Check list off while having tea._  
  
He’s never been to London, okay. Hell, he’s never been anywhere that isn’t Beacon Hills territory. So of course Stiles has plans. Stiles has _a lot_ of plans. One of them being: _Get wasted in an Irish pub_ ; followed by, _Make out with someone while wasted in an Irish pub_. Which, fine, long shot. But he’s in another damn country and he’s allowed a shot at everything, thank you very much.  
  
The old lady one table over looks at him funny for having his feet up which, hey, no judging the tourist.  
  
Because Stiles, Stiles is in fucking London, England. And aside for a drunken make-out session with a stranger in an Irish pub, there’s only one other thing that would make this trip even better than it’s been so far.  
  


 

* * *

  
“Hey there, big guy.” What can he say, Stiles is living dangerously right now. No challenge in trying to break the pale faced statue on the other end so he chooses this one. The one with the seemingly  expressive cheekbones and, he bets, an even more expressive fist if he presses just the right buttons.  
  
It would totally be the best thing ever if he gets punched by a... what are these guys anyway?  
  
“What am I supposed to call you guys, anyway? British Guards? Royal Guards? Beef-” _huh_ , he looks from the guy to his _Guide to all things British book_ then back again, “-eaters?”  
  
 _Really?_  
  
“Well, you look a lot like a-” _beefcake_ , “Beefeater, mister... Beefeater.” He says, poking the guy on the chest and yeah, totally a beefcake.  
  
“May I call you Beefy?”  
  


  
  
They’re probably robots. Seriously, there’s no other possibility.  
  
Stiles is never one to keep still. He’s not the person to set the unmoving bar with. But even on special occasions when he’s forced to at least try to keep still, he has to move _something_. In fact he has a wide collection of click pens to click, pencils to tap, and jacket cuffs to chew on whenever foot tapping or any movement that will make sound isn’t allowed.  
  
“You sure you don’t want one?” He asks after taking a 15-minute break from his mission to grab some fries. They call it chips though, but whatever, it’s fries. “It’s reaaaaaally yummy-” and to demonstrate, he gets right under Beefy’s nose and takes an indulgent bite of awesome fried potato goodness. He follows it up with an over-exaggerated expression of delight, just in case his eyes rolling to the back of his head is too subtle.  
  


  
  
Truth be told, trying to break a Royal Guard is quite exhausting. He spends all afternoon all hands - and feet - on deck pushing buttons normal people would react to. But Beefy, he’s not normal. At some point Stiles ends up like a kitten wrapped around Beefy’s leg, and still, nothing.  
  
“You work out, Beefy?” He asks, hands obnoxiously squeezing up one bicep. Beefy’s built like a greek god, _holy shit_. If Stiles had been lucky enough to have the same physique, he’d be making boys and girls cry all over Great Britain. And also get laid... lots. “Because you are ridiculously built, like,” he says it like it is, huffing indignantly and flexing his own arm, “This is so unfair.”  
  
He drops his arm with a weak snarl, moving in front of Beefy and peering under the fur of his helmet, “Going out and painting the town red  would be a breeze for you why don’t you just do that professionally instead of standing here and have people stare at you all day?” Which, _huh_ , Stiles realizes once the words are out. “I bet you’re used to people staring at you even out of uniform.”  
  
And then a thought hits him, “Are you _ever_ out of uniform?”  
  


  
  
“Have you ever been to the US?” Stiles looks up from his perch on the floor beside Beefy’s feet, shielding his eyes from the sun. He discovers he can see Beefy’s face better this way. Even though he never actually looks back, Stiles can at least convince himself that this guy’s actually human when he can see his eyes. “I haven’t seen much of my own country actually because I live in the middle of Bumfuck, California but I hear it’s nice. I should get on that when I get back. Europe’s nice and all but I’m alone and I kinda miss my dad, he’s a Sheriff by the way, and my dopey-eyed best friend, Scott. If he was here he’d have dragged me away from you already. He’s nice and dopey, that boy. Good for a road trip to counter my free spirit else I end up picking up a hitchhiker because he seemed nice and being discovered dead in a ditch somewhere days later. Which is, you know, not good. Since I’m awesome. The world isn’t ready to lose my awesomeness.”  
  
Stiles notices the slightly displaced hem of Beefy’s trousers and pulls to re-align it. Probably his fault anyway when he tried to jump on the guy’s back a while ago. He looks up and thinks Beefy’s lips twitched just then. Maybe it’s just the sun being all distracting and mean.  
  


  
  
“Miss me already?” He jokes, standing nearly shoulder to shoulder with Beefy as he takes a sip of the coffee he went to get. The sun’s already down and the air is cool and crisp. When Stiles exhales, the puffs of air are even more visible from the light of the lamp post beside them.  
  
It’s been a long day. The number of times Stiles has been pulled away by a police officer is enough to give his dad an aneurism. It’s been nice too, though. Beefy never responds but at least Stiles is able to talk freely without looking crazy, talking to himself. Well, _a little less_ crazy than actually talking to himself because he’s just talking to someone who won’t talk back.  
  
“It’s my last day in London tomorrow, Beefy. You still won’t throw puppy a bone?”  
  


  
  
“Who are _you_?” Stiles eyes are probably bulging out of their sockets as he adresses the stranger standing in front of him.  
  
He’s a bit late today, his last full day in London, totally prepared to get a reaction from Beefy before he gets to tick off his Irish Pub box. But this guy, he isn’t Beefy. This guy doesn’t even have half of Beefy’s beefcake-y-ness. He’s tall and narrow without a lot of breadth on his shoulders. His cheekbones aren’t as expressive and Stiles can’t imagine his eyebrows furrowing under that funny looking furry hat.  
  
Stiles walks away, curiously disappointed,  with the feather he had intended to use on Beefy as a last resort.  
  


* * *

  
  
Stiles feels like Scott. He can see his reflection on the bar wall across from him, and it’s exactly the face Scott makes when there’s trouble in paradise with Allison. It doesn’t help that Scott looks adorable in the mopey face but Stiles just looks confused and possibly constipated.  
  
He’s been in the pub maybe two hours. People just keep on trickling in with none trickling out. It’s noisy inside, but not in a rude and offensive way. The pub is buzzing just loud enough for everyone to be appropriately distracted while they drink their beers. The lights are dim. And there are lots of gaudy yet rustic decor scattered all over the place making it dysfunctionally homey. Stiles looks around, and he’s surprised to see how much the pub’s filled up since the last time he checked a few minutes ago.  
  
Just as he figures it will take no time at all for someone to sit on the empty but uncomfortable stool beside him, “This seat taken?” Stiles only has time between moping to shake his head and take another swig of his beer.  
  
Not even a minute in and he starts moping out loud. He rambles on and on about commitment and expectation and disappointment and expressive cheekbones. Barely sparing a sideways glance at his new best friend, he barrels on, whining about probably not getting that drunken make-out anymore and that he totally should’ve tried to kiss Beefy when he still had the chance. “Strictly to get a reaction, dude. Seriously,” he says.  
  
The bartender passes and Stiles gestures for a refill. That’s when he gets an honest to god look at the man beside him, and he sends out every possible prayer for the universe to make his drunken make-out happen.  
  
Because, _damn_.  
  
Not only is this guy probably the most good looking guy he’s ever seen, the guy is blatantly looking straight at him with a strangely fond expression. “You’re even louder when you’re drunk.” Which, okay, what?  
  
“Um,” Stiles croaks, struggling to keep his eyes focused. “I’m sorry. I really _am_ drunk thanks for noticing. Uh, I can’t really say I remember us ever meeting before where you would have a basis to compare my drunken babble to my regular babble which are different, by the way. I babble differently when I’m intoxicated. Mostly because I remember only bits and pieces of my babbling after my hangover so...”  
  
Stiles gestures wildly in front of him, trying to communicate, _how, what, why_ , while chastising himself for not remembering meeting a greek go- _Oh_.  
  
Beefy must’ve seen the recognition dawn on Stiles’ face because that’s a dangerously attractive smirk right there. “My name’s not Beefy.”  
  
“Of course I know your name’s not Beefy I mean who would name their kid that that’s just mean even though, you know, people call me Stiles which some people might find weird but my real name's even-”  
  
“Shut up, Stiles.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
And then that fond look is back on not-Beefy’s face again and it’s giving Stiles butterflies on crack.  
  
“It’s Derek.” And then Derek’s standing up. He drops more than his share of bills on the bar then raises an eyebrow, _he does have expressive eyebrows, I knew it_ ,  at Stiles. “Don’t we need to tick a few boxes on that list of yours?”  
  
  
The universe definitely loves him.

 


End file.
